by Mary Daheim
“I’m a Methodist,” Marilynn Lewis confided. “I haven’t been to church since I got here, but I understand the local minister is very respected. I’ve heard that from some of Dr. Flake and Dr. Dewey’s patients.”
I’d met the Reverend Minton Phelps on several occasions, and he seemed both respected and respectable. At least he hadn’t dropped his pants in public, which was more than could be said for the previous Pentecostal minister—who had done just that shortly before I arrived in Alpine. My perverse, puckish sense of humor dictated that I relate the incident to Marilynn, who laughed merrily at the anecdote, some of which I made up since I hadn’t been an eyewitness.
“Really, Ms. Lord,” she said, still giggling, “I think I’m going to like it here in Alpine. I’ve met several awfully nice people.” Abruptly, she sobered and lowered her dark eyes. “Of course, there are some jerks, too. But that’s true everywhere, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so.” I, too, had turned serious. “You mustn’t mind them. In some ways, this town is kind of backward: Isolated. Ingrown. Some of the locals need educating. And call me Emma.”
Marilynn’s smile resurfaced, though it was a little lopsided. “You aren’t from here, either, I guess.”
“No.” Briefly, I recounted my history. Born and raised in Seattle, three years at the University of Washington, an internship at The Times, a journalism degree from the University of Oregon, eighteen years in Portland on The Oregonian. Parents killed in an auto accident, brother a priest in Arizona, son a student in Alaska. I omitted the part about my married lover and my unmarried pregnancy.
Marilynn reciprocated. She had been born in Oakland, but her family had moved to Seattle just before she entered high school. Her father was dead; her mother had remarried and moved back to California. After graduating from the UDUB’s School of Nursing, she had gone to work at Virginia Mason Hospital. Four years later, she had decided she needed a change, both personally and professionally. I had the feeling she had omitted something, too.
“It’s an adjustment,” I said, referring to small-town life. “I still miss the city in many ways.”
Marilynn nodded. “I do, too. I think.” Her gaze traveled around the living room, taking in the Campbell family and Vida, who was regaling Wendy and Jean with an account of last year’s Memorial Day ceremonies wherein Crazy Eights Neffel had decorated the town’s World War I monument with balloon animals. Shane was at the window, peering into the rain. He struck me as edgy, especially when a solicitous Cyndi approached him from behind, and made him jump. “The first few weeks are the hardest, I suppose,” Marilynn remarked, her forehead creasing.
I waited for her to go on, but she didn’t. “People in Alpine have to adjust, too,” I said, hoping my voice was compassionate. “They’re not used to minorities living here.”
Marilynn’s eyes narrowed for just an instant. “No. But they don’t have to be so mean. You heard about the crow? And the letters?”
Relieved that she had finally broached the subject, I nodded. “I get to hear just about everything in my line of work. Naturally, I’m appalled. But I can’t say I’m surprised. You have no idea who sent them?”
“No.” She stared down at the glass-topped coffee table. “I’ve met quite a few people already. You do, in a doctor’s office. But they seemed … okay. Oh, some of them looked shocked when they walked in and saw me the first couple of days.” Suddenly, she laughed. “I felt like wearing a sign that read, ‘Yes, I’m a person of color. No, you’re not.’ It’s kind of weird, being an object of curiosity. And fear.”
“Fear,” I echoed. “Yes, you’re right. It is fear. Irrational, but it’s there.”
Marilynn’s laughter faded. “It’s ridiculous,” she declared, sounding quite severe. “What on earth is there to be afraid of?”
“Nothing,” I replied. Naturally, I meant it. And, of course, I was wrong.
Vida and I left the Campbell house just before nine. As I expected, she insisted that we drive down to the sheriff’s office. Vida couldn’t contain her curiosity another minute. Neither could I.
The rain had stopped. It was dark now, with a scattering of stars above the mountain ridges that ringed the town. Milo Dodge, Bill Blatt, and Dwight Gould were on the job as expected. Doc Dewey had joined them, in his capacity as the Skykomish County coroner. The body, I assumed, had been taken to the morgue, which was located in the basement of Alpine Community Hospital.
“… Fio Rito, down in Kittitas County, outside of Ellensburg,” Doc Dewey was saying as he poured his apparently cold coffee onto an artificial fern. “I took my brother-in-law from Seattle there for opening day, and we did all right.”
Dwight Gould was shaking his head. “You got to go farther than that for any real fishing. I’m heading up north to British Columbia in August. We’ll camp out, and you’d better believe I’ll come back with so many trout you guys’ll …” Dwight stopped, his square face looking vaguely embarrassed. “Hi, Mrs. Runkel, Mrs. Lord. We’re just winding down.”
“Well, wind up,” Vida demanded. “What’s going on? Have you got any information about the victim, or are you four fools just trading fish stories?”
Milo, who had his feet up on his metal desk, reached for a computer printout. “Simmer down, Vida. We’re doing our job. This Kelvin guy was a doper, at least he’d been picked up for dealing. I figure he came here to corrupt the locals. Seattle’s getting too crowded.”
Vida made an impatient gesture with her hand. “The locals are already corrupt enough without having outsiders help them along. As long as you’ve got an Elks Club, you’re going to have corruption. Now tell us the real reason he came to Alpine.”
Milo—and his deputies—looked blank. “Hell, Vida,” Milo replied, passing a weary hand over his high forehead, “how do we know? Maybe he was just passing through. We haven’t started our investigation. Doc here has to do an autopsy.”
Vida turned to Gerald Dewey, whose round face evinced ignorance—or was it innocence? I had the feeling that our law enforcement and medical officials weren’t exactly falling all over themselves to figure out who had killed Kelvin Greene. The assumption was disturbing.
“Well?” Vida had her fists on her hips. “What are you waiting for, Gerry? Did you freeze-dry the corpse so you could natter away with Milo and his merry band of lamebrained men?” She whirled around to fix her nephew with a withering stare. “This man was shot. What kind of bullet? What sort of gun? When? Where? Who? The press—and the public—needs to know.”
“Shit.” Milo removed his feet from the desk. He looked at Doc Dewey. “Do your stuff, Doc. Lois Lane here is about to make us crazy.”
Vida snorted. Doc Dewey headed for the exit. “Your father wouldn’t have been so negligent,” she called after him. “Doc Dewey Senior was an admirable man.”
Milo was now standing up. “It’s after nine,” he announced. “I’ll start my questioning in the morning.” With his jaw set, he gazed first at me, then at Vida. “Given the ethnic roots of the victim, we’ll begin with Marilynn Lewis.”
I had a sudden urge to pour cold coffee over Milo.
It’s rare that I have a weekend all to myself. News is made seven days a week. If Vida and Carla can’t cover events on Saturdays or Sundays, I take over. On this third weekend of May, the Lutheran church was holding its annual Spring Food and Fun Festival, which required Vida’s attendance. She was also going to Axel Swensen’s funeral in the morning. Carla was scheduled to take pictures of the high school baseball game between Alpine and Sultan. I assigned myself the task of keeping tabs on Milo Dodge and the murder investigation.
Figuring that it would take Milo until midmorning to come up with anything substantial, I used the time to clean house. I was vacuuming the living room when I thought I heard the phone ring. I picked up the receiver just before the call was switched over to my answering machine.
My voice was breathless when I said hello; it didn’t get any better when I heard who was at the ot
her end.
“Well, hello there, Emma,” said Tom Cavanaugh in his usual mellow tones. “I thought you might be outside working in your yard.”
“I should be,” I replied, sitting down with a plop on the chair next to my desk. “I’m housecleaning.” I giggled. I could have strangled myself.
“Adam called this morning,” Tom said. “He may be flying down to the Bay Area for a few days after school gets out.”
I stopped giggling. I felt my face take on a stern expression. I still wasn’t used to sharing Adam. “That’s up to him. He likes San Francisco.” I knew my voice had turned stiff.
“Most people do,” Tom said, sounding not quite as casual as usual. “I’ll be able to take some time off to show him around. He’d probably like to stay down at Fisherman’s Wharf again.”
I bit back the urge to ask why Tom didn’t invite him to bed down in one of what I assumed to be a plethora of spare rooms at the Cavanaugh mansion. Adam had not yet met his half siblings. I figured Tom hadn’t broken the news to them that he had another child.
“Adam finishes up just before the Memorial Day weekend,” I noted, trying to relax. “I expect you’ll have plenty of leeway before you head up here for the conference at Lake Chelan.”
“Definitely,” Tom assured me. “I don’t plan on coming until the day before it starts. Are you attending?”
Hearing the new formal note in his voice, I bristled. “I doubt it. It’s a busy time. Maybe I’ll send Ed Bronsky.”
The slight pause at the other end evoked a mental picture of Tom on the verge of delivering a flippant barb, but thinking better of it. “Ed could use some helpful hints. Maybe he and I could have a drink together.”
“How thoughtful.” Now I’d sunk to sarcasm. I literally kicked myself. “I mean, it probably won’t do any good. Ed’s a mess.”
“Then why are you sending him?” Tom sounded reasonable, but I knew better.
“It’d make more sense to send Ginny Burmeister,” I replied, and realized that was true.
“The conference isn’t aimed at underlings, Emma.” Tom also could be stem.
“Well … I’ve got almost a week to think about it.” I shrugged, obviously for my own sake rather than Tom’s. It was time to move away from the hostile topic of the WNPA. “How’s everything going down there?”
“Terrific,” Tom answered. “The kids are fine, Sandra’s great, business is booming. How about Alpine?”
“Wonderful,” I replied. “I get to like this town more every day. The people are so warm and friendly, and after a rocky first quarter, the economy is really roaring now that spring is here.” I, too, could lie through my teeth.
“It sounds like you’ve found a real niche for yourself.” Tom’s voice held no expression. “I’ll have Adam call you when he gets here. If he gets here.”
“Thanks.” Wildly, I cast around for a way to keep Tom on the line while still saving face. “Are you flying up?” The question was idiotic. How else would a wealthy newspaper magnate cover the seven-hundred-plus miles between San Francisco and Alpine? “I mean, into Sea-Tac—or …?” Where? I didn’t have the foggiest idea if there was an airport at Lake Chelan. A real airport, as opposed to a landing field…. My brain was disintegrating before its time.
“I’m driving,” Tom replied, and I thought I caught the hint of amusement in his words. “I own a couple of weeklies in northern California and one in central Oregon. I haven’t called on any of them in almost a year. It should be a nice trip. I can do it in three days if my local folks don’t present me with any big problems.”
I thought of Tom, driving alone through the rolling farmland north of the Bay Area, on to the Siskiyou Mountains, and across the high desert country of central Oregon. He was right—it would be a wonderful trip. It would be even better if I were with him….
“I miss Oregon,” I said. “It was home for almost twenty years.”
“Take a vacation down there,” Tom suggested, his voice again casual before it dropped an octave: “Give yourself a break, Emma. Life’s too short.”
“I know.” I sounded wispy.
“I’ve got to go. I’ll see you, kid.”
“Right. Bye.”
He’d see me. Did Tom mean that literally? I hoped so. I thought not. I kicked myself again.
“She’s lying,” Milo Dodge stated flatly. “I’d bet my badge that Marilynn Lewis knew Kelvin Greene.”
I grimaced at Milo over my schooner of beer. The sheriff was officially off duty, and therefore entitled to drink himself stupid, if he wanted to. Fortunately, Milo doesn’t do that very often. “You’re jumping to conclusions,” I said in a peevish voice. “Good grief, Milo, there are thousands of African-Americans in Seattle. They don’t all know each other. Why should Marilynn know this Kelvin Greene?”
Milo stifled a sneeze, then waved in a vague manner at a couple of workmen in overalls who had just entered Mugs Ahoy. “Why should Kelvin Greene come to Alpine? Face it, Emma, when was the last time a black guy came here without a backpack or a wife and kiddies? We get tourists, campers, hikers, skiers—maybe somebody on business from the state. But casual visitors who are black? I don’t recall a one.”
I wasn’t convinced. But neither would I argue further with Milo. My eyes scanned the gloomy interior of Mugs Ahoy, where a dozen customers sat at tired tables drinking domestic beer and watching an NBA play-off game. An early Saturday afternoon doesn’t bring out the best of the tavern’s atmosphere. The truth is, there isn’t any. But Milo had been thirsty. Autopsies, he said, had that effect on him.
“Tell me about the bullet,” I said. Seeing Milo give me a quizzical look, I elaborated. “You know what I mean—the ballistics stuff. Where was he shot? With what? Where and when?”
Milo ran a big hand through his graying sandy hair. “Hell, Emma, this isn’t television. We don’t have any lab reports yet. Monday, I expect.” He signaled to the owner, Abe Loomis, to bring another round.
Milo’s beeper went off before Abe could draw our new schooners. “Damn,” the sheriff muttered, waving at Abe to desist. As Milo headed for the wooden phone booth next to the rest rooms, I contemplated the decor. A generous soul might have called it minimalist; I opted for cheap. Most of the art was neon beer signs, touting local brands, including a couple of microbreweries. Two fading photographs of Alpine’s early logging days hung on each side of the mirror behind the bar. A rack of elk antlers dipped crookedly over the entryway to the telephone and rest rooms. The most unusual item was on the far wall by the booths: a crosscut saw had been painted in oils, showing a tranquil mountain valley, complete with sparkling stream, cozy cabin, and a prancing pony. If such a place existed around Alpine, I’d never seen it. But the thought was nice—for a saw painting.
Milo returned at a faster gait than his usual lope. He was wiping his nose and didn’t look pleased. “Your ace reporter has a hot tip. Do you want to tag along?”
“Carla? About what?” I grabbed my handbag as Milo tossed a five-dollar bill onto the grooved table.
“Not Carla. Vida.” Milo gave Abe Loomis a semisalute.
“Vida’s my House & Home editor,” I asserted, racing to keep up with the sheriff’s long strides. “Really, Milo, you ought to know the difference by …”
But Milo wasn’t listening. His Cherokee Chief was parked outside in the loading zone. The afternoon was sunny and warm, with only a faint breeze stirring the curtains in the open windows of the apartment house across the street. It was, I knew, the building Marilynn Lewis had visited the previous evening. Filling the block, the Alpine Arms was four stories of sturdy, if unimaginative, brick. I guessed it was probably put up shortly after World War?.
“Where is Vida?” I demanded after we were heading east on Pine Street, past the Baptist and Methodist churches, past John Engstrom Memorial Park, and past the golden arches of McDonald’s. Above the town, Baldy was still covered with snow, as if to remind us that here among the mountains, we were never far from winter
.
“Vida called from the funeral reception at the Lutheran church, but she said to meet her at the cemetery.” Milo braked for the arterial at Pine and Highway 187. “She’d better not be having one of her harebrained ideas.”
“Vida’s ideas are never harebrained,” I countered. “She merely thinks beyond the ordinary.”
Milo didn’t reply. Two minutes later, we were winding up the cemetery road. Alpine’s dead are buried as they lived, on a hillside. The older section, with its elaborate granite tombstones and marble monuments, is located next to the laurel hedge that separates the graveyard from the highway. Here lie the miners, the millworkers, the movers and shakers who founded the town. Farther up are their children, with more modest markers, and a few American flags to commemorate the veterans from two World Wars, Korea, and Vietnam. High on the hill are the new burial sites for those who came to Alpine in the Age of Aquarius, and found not Paradise, but a long commute to Everett. To my surprise, it was here that Axel Swensen had been laid to rest.
Attired in a black nylon swing coat and a wide-brimmed black straw hat, Vida stood under a green canopy next to the freshly turned mound of earth. Sprays of flowers covered the ground. Vida was reading the enclosure cards.
“The Gustavsons,” she murmured. “That would be Harold and Tessa. Duane and Evelyn Gustavson didn’t know Axel that well.” The Gustavsons, as I was aware, were somehow related to Vida. “Erdahls—lovely glads. The Petersens sent a wreath.” Briskly, she straightened up. “Delphine Corson did very well off of old Axel,” Vida noted, referring to the local florist and owner of Posies Unlimited. She saw my curious gaze and, as often is the case with Vida, read my mind. “Axel outlived everybody in his family. They ran out of room in the original plot. That’s why he’s up here.”